Nothing Left Now
by OokamiHybrid
Summary: He swallows, thickly, and stares hard at the curve of the Batman's mouth, hoping, preying, and begging for it to be somebody else.


_**AN: After this, I will keep my AN's to a minimum. However, there are some things that need to be said before I get into this fanfiction.**_

_**Firstly, I obviously do not own any of the characters, and make no profit from writing with them. Secondly, this will not be a happy fanfiction. Trigger warnings will be posted at the beginning of each chapter they apply to, although as this is Batman fic, violence, language, and blood apply to most chapters.**_

**Nothing Left Now**

_**Nothing but the Dark**_

**Her father wanted to destroy Gotham, but Talia only wants to destroy Bruce. She works hard, with her protector at her shoulder, and in the end she watches the Batman close his eyes and give in.**

**Bruce has fought so hard for this city, but Bane can't feel pain – he can't feel fear. He knows he's going to lose. He can't stop this, this thing. He can't save Gotham. He closes his eyes and bows his head, surrendering himself to the Shadows. He can only hope he'll live long enough to protect whoever might survive this mess. He gives himself to Talia, and settles at her left shoulder – Bane will always be by her right – and lifts his head to look on at the destruction below, face blank behind the mask as the cameras begin to roll.**

**John feels his world, his fragile, small world shatter with the sound of a million breaking glasses. He's sitting beside Jim on the couch in his little flat, watching the news. He watches the Batman settle at the side of a madwoman, plainly ignoring his new brother in arms. He swallows, thickly, and stares hard at the curve of the Batman's mouth, hoping, preying, and begging for it to be somebody else. **

**The camera zooms in and John's eyes settle on a freckle, a small mark, that shouldn't be so familiar but definitely is. His heart seizes and he hears Jim curse beside him as Talia begins to talk. Wild, his eyes spin to his Commissioner. His Commissioner who had lied to him, to Gotham, who sat by in silence while Bruce took blame that wasn't his. "Good friends." He croaks, weak, and blindly stumbles to his bathroom. He wonders if Jim has realized who that Bat is, but knows that he – and the monsters who just can't be human, the ones who have helped break his hero, **_**defiled him**_**, his blood rushing with the urge to **_**kill**_** – and he alone holds that secret.**

**He heaves for what feels like forever. When he returns to the living room, Jim is still watching the screen. The people of Gotham, the good people, they're mostly dead. The criminals who had wanted revenge against the Bat? What more do they need? The ones who may have survived are probably sitting, laughing, as the man who had brought them to their knees in agony has been broken himself. **

**John realizes, dazedly, that there is no Bruce Wayne anymore. That there is a suit, but it isn't a suit. It's a shell. A shell with an empty body inside, that watches them all with blank eyes. Bruce Wayne is gone, and in his place, there is a creature hell bent on destruction, on bringing his own Justice. A creature who will help lead Gotham to its reckoning.**

**He realizes, legs sliding out from under him, toppling him onto the couch, that Bruce Wayne is dead. Now? Now there is only the Batman.**

**Now there is only the night.**

ZZZ

"You know this is your fault." Talia says softly, her fingers stroking over the back of the cowl. Bruce says nothing, makes no movement. "You let the bomb go off." She knows he had tried, so very, very hard to get to Gotham in time. She had felt him, as she and Bane sat atop their new world, and watched Gotham explode. There were survivors, but that was to be expected. It was wanted.

Together, with Bane and the Bat, she would mould these people into a new Gotham. She would take what had risen from the ashes and give them their wings so they could rise. She toyed with the idea of creating a new League, and found it pleasing. She could turn these people, train them, and nurture them the way her father had once nurtured, so very long ago. These people who had survived, they could be truly saved.

She would leave these ones here in Gotham. Leave the Bat as their ruler, as she and her Bane take to the world once more, fixing what was broken. The thought relaxes her and she settles into her seat, fingers curling into a blood stained cape. She catches movement to the right, and watches Bane shift against the wall, his blue-green eyes focused solely on the Bat.

"The officers." She starts, licking her lips "They're all dead." She's speaking of the ones in the tunnels, the ones they had trapped.

"Not all of them." His voice is soft, betraying some emotion she can't quite place. She turns her attention to the Bat, reaching up to tug at his mask. He pulls it off, knowing that that's what she's asking. She watches the emotion playing in his eyes, and wonders at how people can think the precious Bat is dead. He's very much alive, she knows, as she watches him. Alive, but not kicking.

"No?" Her voice is deceptively soft, coy. "You think some of them have survived?"

He says nothing more, eyes filled with a lost sort of longing.

"Bruce." She coos, pulling at the cape once more. He sits beside her, leaning into her chair, so completely lost that she feels a real pang of sympathy. "Anyone who has survived deserves to live." Her fingers card through his hair, smoothing it down. "We have done what we were meant to do. We have destroyed Gotham." She presses her lips to his temple, soft. "Those who rise from the ash are deserving of life. Of the chance to be _reborn_. We will not kill those who have proved themselves..._worthy_. So long as they do not resist." She adds, as an afterthought, thinking already of the new laws they'll be putting in place.

She wonders if her precious Scarecrow is up to running the courts again, knowing well that he had been tucked safely away from the explosion. Jonathon was hers, as he had once been her fathers. Plus, there was no way the skittish little man with straw for brains would ever even _think_ of crossing Bane.

"Do not feel guilt, beloved. You have done the right thing. It has taken you a long time to come to terms with the fact Gotham needed saving, but you have seen the light. You, and the remaining Gothamite's, you will be spared." She rolled carefully from her chair, settling between his spread knees as she cupped his cheeks in her palms. "Can you not see it, Bruce? This was meant to be. There is reason to everything in this life," She begins to explain, brushing her forehead softly against his. "My father died so we could be here together, understand? In his death, we have done something better than simply take all of Gotham and rip the life from her. We have singled out the ones meant to live, and with you at my side, we will _save_ them." She nods to herself, eyes slipping shut as she smiles. "They have already be cleansed, do you see? The fire has cleansed them. What comes now is much simpler."

She can feel Bane behind her, still across the room. She can feel his anger, coating the air and making it thick enough that it's almost a tangible weight.

Bruce, in the quiet of his mind, in the part where he's allowed to be a coward, begs for some unknown deity to grant him death. He is burdened by his shame, the weight of it across his shoulders physically tangible as he slumps closer to Talia. Bane takes two small steps forward, and Bruce fights back the urge to laugh.

He can almost hear the man purring that there is no God here, but that he'll be more than happy to suffice. It's ironic in a way that hurts deep in his bones, and so he closes his eyes to the lights. The darkness, he finds, is no more comforting and merely amplifies the world around him. His worn out body yearns to sleep, though, and he allows himself to settle more comfortably against a woman he had once thought so highly of.

She tuts lowly and lifts his head from her shoulder, thumbnails biting into the flesh just beneath his lower lashes. He forces his eyes open, meeting her gaze with effort. "You can't sleep here, darling. Bane will show you to your room." Her lips brush his temple like a mother soothing a child, and it's all he can do to not vomit on the expensive suit she's still wearing.

Bane finishes his walk across the room, hovering behind Talia. "Rise." He rasps, and there's definite amusement in his voice, low and cloying. For a brief moment, Bruce wonders what it would have been like to have the mountain of a man on his side. To have someone whose strength he could rely on, lean on when he wavered. For all of Talia's talk, it was obvious that this masked man granted her the strength she needed to move on. It's a wishful feeling, coiled low in his belly.

Perhaps, if he hadn't been alone, he wouldn't have broken so easily. A voice that sounds so similar to Alfred's whispers in his mind _why do we fall?_ And Bruce answers, mouth forming the words silently _so we can learn to pick ourselves back up_ as he gets his feet under him.

Not for the first time, he rises before Bane, lifting his weary head to meet the mans gaze dead on. There is no rush here, he realizes, although there's a sort of nervous energy hanging around broad shoulders, lurking behind clear eyes. He doesn't bid Talia goodnight like the other mask does, as they exit the room.

They're in a tower clear acoss town. It almost falls out of Gotham jurisdiction, much like his Manor in the Palisades. This is a newer building, one reinforced with up to date Wayne Tech. Of course it's still standing. _Condos_ he remembers, thinking back to the contracts Lucius had had him sign. Condos for the wealthy.

Such hipocrisy here but then, he knows well the lure of riches. It's only natural that Talia, after living the high life for so long, even as a disguise, would have become accustomed to it.

There are two beds in the room Bane leads him to. He manages to raise an eyebrow, head cocking to the left. He doesn't expect an answer, but he gets one, regardless.

"She wishes for us to remain close, brother." The word _brother_ hurts, and is said with a mixture of venom and amusement. "She wants to make sure that you do not stray. I am to keep an eye on you." A hand, one he knows is strong enough to crush human bones with hardly any effort, settles gently on his shoulder.

He realizes, in that moment, that while Bane is devoted, he is tired.

"Sleep now, Bruce." The use of his real name leaves a sour taste in his mouth. "There will be plenty to do in the morning, I assure you." Still there is no rush to the words. There are, however, generic clothes laid out on one of the beds, much to small to fit Bane.

Black sweat pants and a matching black shirt. He's always prefered to sleep in white, or even red, but he doesn't complain as Bane turns, giving him his broad back. It's for privacy, which is ridiculous, because Bane's already seen the worst of him and felt the best of him. He has nothing to hide from this man anymore – had never been able to hide anything to begin with.

It feels like ages before he's managed to pry his sullied suit from his body, hands fumbling with the clasps. Bane somehow remains patient, rasping breath filling the room alongside the gentle clicking of metal falling open. It's a soothing noise, and it reminds him of his Batcave, the rumble of the tumblr surrounding him. By the time he's redressed in the bland, dark clothes, he's half asleep on his feet.

"What do we do now?" He asks, voice flat as he gingerly lowers himself to the bed. He can see the dark bruising on his arms and hadn't bothered to look anywhere else. This beast of a man has _destroyed_ him.

Bane is laughing at him. Not out loud, but it's perfectly clear in his eyes as he turns to face the Bat "Now we sleep, brother. Have I not already said that?" At the glare he receives, Bane does finally let out a quiet rumble. "It is not for your mind to worry over, Bruce. Now in the first days of Gotham's reckoning, is the time to rest, recuperate, rejoice."

Annoyance flickers across Bruce's features as he finally slumps into the bed. "Reduce, reuse, recycle." He recits, the three R's having been branded into him in elementary school.

Now Bane looks downright impressed, smile obvious in the crinkle of his eyes. "Reckoning." He adds, nodding as he too peels off his shirt, uncaring of the way his body looks.

Bruce cares, though, and he rolls over, giving Bane his own back. He can't bring himself to be afraid of doing something so ridiculous with someone so completely dangerous. He's already lost everything. There's nothing that can be done now that would hurt him any further.

ZZZ

She moved away from Gotham just a little while before her mother and brother had been kidnapped by Twoface. She had been – and still does, actually – attending a high end tech school her father couldn't really afford. Only her scolarship and a shocking, but much appreciated, grant from the Thomas and Martha Wayne foundation had given her the opportunity to go. It was a great experience, and she'd been learning much, even if she secretly spent most of her free time hacking data bases and tinkering in the workshop she had turned her bathroom into. She doesn't have a roommate, thank God.

Now she's sitting in her mother's house again and this time, they're very far away from Gotham. Her red hair, once glorious and full, hangs greasy and listless around her face. Stray locks cling to her cheeks where they're sticky from hours of crying. Her eyes burn more than the one and only time she'd sat in the centre of a new group, pot smoke heavy in the air. She hates it. She can't stand what she's letting herself become but she has no fucking clue what else to do.

She tells herself she only came to comfort her mother, but it's a lie. She doesn't like lying, and she can see her fathers lovingly disaproving glance if he were to ever catch her doing it. The image makes her throat clench, makes it difficult to breathe.

Her mother had turned the TV off hours ago, and so now she sits infront of the black screen, mind racing with unwanted thoughts. She's a logical person by nature, all numbers and cold calculations. She knows that in reality, her father is very much dead, buried beneath the rubble of a city she had once called home. Gotham hadn't ever been a nice place, but she'd always toyed with the idea of moving back. Raising a family there, in the heart of the darkness, so that they could be close to the rest of the people she loved more than life itself.

She came here to be held and reassured, to curl into her mothers arms like she had as a small child. She remembers a night where her heart had felt heavy in her chest, when the sound of gunshots rang through the air. Her father had yelled at them to get inside, and she pressed her face against her mothers breast, focusing hard the _thump, thump_ that she founnd there, which somehow had remained steady as her father did what he did best – took down the bad guy.

Logic tells her to stop hoping, to try to come to terms with the fact she'll never heave another exhasperated _dad_ at his prying questions.

Instinct, however, tells her something entirely different. As a child, her father had calmly informed her that instinct was what made him a good cop. She had watched his steady rise in power as he followed his gut, nose to the wind like a hound. He was a good man, a strong man, and she took his wisdom to heart then as she stared blankly at a black tv.

"Barbara, you need to go to bed." Her mother sounds absolutely exhausted, and Barb raises flat-dead eyes to the tragically beautiful woman hovering in the doorway to the living room.

Barb shakes her head. "No. I need to go home, mom." She explains. There's a brief second of confusion before her mother _aahs_.

"School's starting again soon, right?"

Barbara nods. "I know they'd give me time off, but I just. I need the distraction." She's lying again, his disaproval gnawing at the back of her mind. She pushes him away, gently, and licks her chapped lips. "I'm really sorry. I want to be here with you but I just, I can't. Not right now. I'll come back soon, I promise, okay?" She raises her arms to hug the woman once she's crossed the room.

"Call me as soon as you get home." Her mother grasps her face and they hold eachothers gaze for a minute. There's something there, in her eyes, that tells Barb her mom knows more than she's letting on.

Barbara smiles wetly and nods again, turning away as the woman walks to her bedroom.

She'll go to her apartment, but only to plan. For the first time in her short life – she's only twenty seven, she doesn't want to deal with this, fuck – she allows her logic and her instinct to meld into one singular, steady force inside of her. Barbara knows that while her parents may have brought her up, and done a damn good job of it too, it's Gotham that runs through her veins. She is a Gothamite, bred and true, and if there's one thing that irons the spine and unifies all Gothamites, it's hope.

She rises.

ZZZ

Bane's men aren't patrolling. John figures that that makes sense, seeing as the world only stopped shaking a few hours ago. His ears still ring from the exposion, an he knows it's sheer dumb luck that kept him alive through the blast. The same sheer dumb luck that's been hanging over his shoulder since he was a boy, making what has always seemed impossible for him, simple reality. He's walking a familiar line, surprised the ground isn't completely caved in.

He's walking towards the boys' home, and can't even muster up the energy to be disapointed when he finds it in ruins. He knows that no one will be there anyway, because he had helped tuck them all into a school bus and them off towards the bridge, in hopes that the Batman or the military would have made it possible for even those few to get out.

John sighs audibly and rubs a hand over his face. He hasn't seen a single other person since he started walking, and it makes him thing of cheap zombie films. Like he's the last man on this world. He hopes it isn't true, and forcefully makes his legs start moving again.

He's lost. Not physically – he knows Gotham like the back of his hand, has spent his entire life memorizing every twist, curve, and dead end she can toss at him – but emotionally. What is he to do now? He knows that Bane and his forces haven't left the city this early, and he knows that Bruce's heart still beats, even if his soul is dead. If he and Gordon, who'd remained with him during the explosion, have survived, there has to be others. He's sure of it.

What will become of them now? He imagines Bane and his army moving through the city, gunning down anyone that dare makes a peep. But, as much as the dude's entire moto screams _terrifying, horrible, angry warlord_, putting down Gotham's leftovers like stray dogs doesn't quite seem his style. Then again, John doesn't exactly know the guy, and definitely does not _want_ to know him. Anything could be waiting for them.

He finds himself checking on old hangouts, as if this is maybe all a dream and he'll see his partner chugging back a beer through the shattered window of Hank's Pub. It doesn't happen, of course, and like with the boys' home, he never really expected it to and doesn't fully feel the flush of disapointment he's waiting for.

He makes a concious effort to not go near the centre of the blast. It had happened right overtop the stranded GCPD forces, and even from blocks and blocks away, he can see the flames still rising. His only comfort there is that so close to the blast, they probably didn't feel a thing, let alone see it coming.

In the end, he knows he has to go to the bridge. He does so with a heavy heart. His feet drag against charred remaints of homes, of hopes, of dreams, as he picks his way through the wreckage. The bus isn't where he'd left it before running to Gordon, but, neither is the bridge. She's collapsed, completely cutting Gotham off from the rest of the world.

It finally brings disapointment, accompanied by rage, heartache and longing. He can't help himself as he hunches over and vomits in the ruined streets, eyes burning and stomach rolling. He stays like that for several minutes, doubled over with his sides heaving. Eventually though, his sick curiosity gets the better of him and he stumbles forwards. He calls out familiar names, not getting any response.

He's not sobbing. There are tears, but they roll silent down his face as his grimy hands tug at his hair. With no one in sight, he throws his head back and screams his throat raw, ignoring the taste of bile in his mouth. He's never wanted to take another life before, yet now the image of stripping Bane bare, of doing to him what he's done to Gotham, hits John with a force so strong he almost falls.

It's a wonder that in his state he even catches the movement. But it's there, about twenty feet ahead, and two feet to the left. He squints his eyes against the dust that's still rising, trying to make out whether he's found a survivor, or if the army has finally begun slinking about once again.

_I'm probably going to die anyway_ he assures himself as he begins to pick his way towards the shadowed figure weaving it's way through broken poles and still-live wires.

The other person stops when it notices him, which he takes as a good sign. Gradually he gets closer until he can make out the smouldering remains of the bat bike. His brow furrows in confusion, and he shifts his gaze from the fallen symbol, to the standing human instead.

She is caked in blood, and dirt, the left leg of her outfit burnt off. The skin there is oozing, charred black in some places. Her right arm is in a sling made from her own jacket. Dislocated or broken, there's no way he can tell from this distance. After surveying the damage, he leans forward to make out her face.

"Miss Kyle." John breathes, taking in the woman he's cuffed more times than he cares to count, the cat theif who'd played them all.

She looks exactly like he feels as she smiles, humorless. "Detective Blake."

He laughs, wetly, when he realizes she's the first person to get his new title right.


End file.
